


head over feet

by FreshBrains



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, POV Han Solo, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Skywalker twins were a strong duo, and they <i>mattered</i>—both to Han’s small world and to the world at large. </p>
<p>(Or, the 80s AU where Han is a punk without a cause, Leia has great taste in music, and Luke looks like an extra in a Wham! video).</p>
            </blockquote>





	head over feet

Leia Organa is scary. That’s the truth—Han is man enough to admit it. She’s small and angry and wears designer clothes with big shit-stomper boots, and her hair is always braided like she’s in a Disney cartoon, and she hangs out with all the cool society people and schmoozes with all the liberal party members. And she always seems to know exactly how to push Han’s buttons in the worst way.

And her brother is smoking hot and single and cute as hell, and Leia is doing her best to nip this one right in the bud.

“He’s got better things to do than sit in the back of your nasty-ass Cadillac or suffer through another bad horror movie with _you_ ,” she says as they thumb through the records at the _Cantina_ , their local shop of choice. She’s got impeccable taste in music, which annoys Han for some reason. “He’s going into the Peace Corps, you know. To do good things.” Her side-eye stare gives Han the chills. “Unlike someone.”

“Hey, who says I’m not doing good things, Cruella de Vil? I helped Lando move yesterday. That’s something good people do.”

“You helped him move for a dime bag and a discount on a Cheap Trick bootleg,” Leia fires, and she’s right, but that’s not the point. “I’m actually surprised to see you here today. Weren’t you in jail over the weekend?”

Han flushes and hides his face with a Duran Duran record. “Yeah, but now I’m _not_ , so isn’t that something?” Just because he beat the shit out of Boba Fett in the parking lot of _Hutt’s_ doesn’t mean he’s a total fuck-up. “And how do you know I wasn’t defending your honor or something?”

“Please,” Leia says breezily. “As if there’s any honor left to defend. That’s not my issue here, Solo. Luke, on the other hand—“

“Is honorable?” Han rolls his eyes, leaning against the record bin. The thing is, Luke Skywalker _is_ honorable. He’s a total dweeb, sure—terrible taste in music, dresses like an extra in a Wham! video, spazzes out about new Atari games. But he’s also seen a lot of shit for a kid barely out of high school. His aunt and uncle died a few years back, and his and Leia’s birth dad was a scary motherfucker whose political power rivalled Leia’s adoptive parents’ before their house burned down under mysterious circumstances and left Leia an orphan at the age of nineteen. The Skywalker twins were a strong duo, and they _mattered_ —both to Han’s small world and to the world at large.

“Just stop leading him on,” Leia says, a little gentler this time. “He’s heading off in a year or so, anyways. Don’t try to start anything you can’t finish.” She smirks at him, piling a stack of records in his arms for him to buy for her. “Though finishing has never been your problem.”

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Han fishes his wallet out of his pocket as they walk to the register.

He loves her so much. He loves _Luke_ so much. He’s royally fucked.

*

“What the hell is this?” Han unzips Luke’s vest—a monstrous puffy rainbow thing that looks like it belongs on a toy store doll and not a blonde-haired, blue-eyed troublemaker sprawled across Han’s unmade bed. “And why is it on you?”

“It’s _fun_ ,” Luke says, an edge of whine to his voice, and shrugs it off. “Better than what you wear. Some color wouldn’t kill you.” He flicks at Han’s earring, grinning wickedly. “Though the punk thing gets me kind of hot.”

“It’s not _punk_ ,” Han says stubbornly. He still maintains that the kids from _Lost Boys_ stole _his_ look, not the other way around. And punks are political, they _stand_ for things, and Han would never stoop so low as to have a cause. “Black hides dirt.”

“Grody,” Luke says, making quick work of the button fly on Han’s jeans, kiss-bitten mouth hanging slightly open in concentration. “You’re supposed to be the adult here, you know. Like, you should own a washing machine.”

“This is a one-bedroom apartment on the bad side of town,” Han says dryly, breath hitching as Luke’s hand dips into his briefs to wrap around his cock. “You’re lucky I own a _bed_.”

“I still prefer the Falcon,” Luke says, smiling at Han before sliding out from underneath Han and onto his knees on the floor. “Remember when we went to see _Friday the 13 th _and we pushed the seats back—“

“Yeah, of _course_ I remember,” Han says, hand wrapping in Luke’s shaggy blonde hair. As if he could ever forget the first time Luke took him in his mouth, unpracticed but eager, blonde head bobbing in his lap as horny teenagers were slaughtered onscreen. It was one of Han’s best days, actually.

Instead of staging a repeat performance, Luke pauses, eyebrow raised. “You’re weird today. What’s going on? Did Leia make fun of your hair again?”

“No,” Han says, a little too defensive. He tugs Luke up to straddle his lap. Luke looks ridiculous, of course—his hair is a mess, his Ray Bans are still dangling from the collar of his shirt, and face it, no guy can be taken seriously in only a Band Aid tee shirt and tighty-whities. But he’s also fucking adorable and sweet and perceptive, and he always just _knows_ , and Han never wants to let him go. “She’s onto us, though. And she’s not happy.”

“Leia’s never happy,” Luke says with a sigh, curling up against Han’s chest. They’re both still hard, and they’ll probably fuck the day away later, ending in Chinese takeout and a bad TV movie on Han’s questionable couch, but now, they’re actually _talking_ instead of ignoring the real stuff. “She wants what’s best for us. You know that.”

“She wants what’s best for _you_ ,” Han says, carding his fingers through Luke’s hair. There’s a record playing in the living room—the Smiths, one of Leia’s favorites. “And she definitely doesn’t think I fit the bill.”

“It’s because you weren’t the best for _her_ ,” Luke says, kissing Han on the cheek. “And she hates being wrong.”

Han snorts, tugging Luke over so they can lie curled up next to each other in the messy sheets. “This isn’t built to last. _This_ , this thing we’ve got going. I never stick around, and you’re going to go change the word, and…”

“And what? We’re here now.” Han expects Luke to say more, but he doesn’t. He just traces patterns on the sparse hair on Han’s chest, chasing his fingers with his lips, getting Han going again. “Stop thinking so much. You’re not good at it.”

“Brat,” Han says, smacking Luke’s ass. Luke squeaks indignantly, moving to straddle Han’s hips, and if they don’t talk much after that, well. At least they _talked_.

They’ve always been better at other things, anyway.


End file.
